Smoke and Mirrors
by Lythande
Summary: An alien race is trying to kill people from the Enterprise. Same old stuff you could get it better someplace else. Has Chekov angst, though!
1. Default Chapter

Summary: An alien race is trying to kill people from the enterprise

Summary: An alien race is trying to kill people from the enterprise. Same old stuff. You could get it better someplace else.

Disclaimer:Paramount owns these people; I just put them on situations nobody else was stupid enough to try.

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

****

******CHAPTER 1**

Captain's Log, stardate 5118.2

The _Enterprise has been assigned to _

gather information on the Rodt'hir in 

the Beta Xi binary star system, near 

the Klingon Neutral Zone.They are an 

advanced race, and apparently the 

founders of the Peace Alliance, an org-

anization similar to the Federation. 

They are currently under considera-

tion for Federation membership.I think

they'd be an asset to the Federation, 

given their intelligence and level of advan-

cement.

**"Captain Kirk, right on time," the Alliance Dictar, ruler of the Peace Alliance, said curtly. "That is appreciated. We can meet with you immediately. No more than six people though, please. We. . . value our privacy." The man on the viewscreen had the coloring of a Vulcan, with a slight greenish cast to his skin and pointed ears with lobes that descended the length of his face, attached the whole distance. His green-tinted hair glinted in the artificial light of the room behind him.**

"Of course," Captain Kirk acquiesced. "We'll be down shortly."

"We look forward to your company." The picture faded abruptly.

The captain of the _Enterprise had already chosen the officers that would accompany him in the landing party; Mr. Spock, his Vulcan first officer, who would undoubtedly be helpful; Doctor McCoy, who would hopefully not be needed; Ensign Chekov, the navigator, partly to relieve the boredom of his post; and Ensign Richards from security, mostly because it was regulations to do so. _

"He seems nice, " Lieutenant Sulu remarked from his position at the helm.

Beside the captain's chair, McCoy snorted. "Yeah, like a Klingon," he said, choosing not to hear the sarcasm in the Asian's voice.

"Nice or not, this shouldn't take long," Kirk interjected. 

"Captain, " Spock called from the science station. "There appears to be a ship at the edge of our sensor range, at the other end of the system. It may be a Klingon."

"Mr. Sulu," he said immediately. "See if you can maneuver us close enough while we're gone to get a reading without them noticing."

_I do not have time__ forthis, he thought wearily._

Instead, he said, "Spock, Bones, Chekov, let's get this over with. Scotty, you've got he conn." The chief engineer took the captain's seat as they headed into the 'lift.

When they materialized on the planet Nodya, the first thing Kirk noticed was the heat. They were surrounded by a desert, beneath the two blazing suns. If not for the sensor-deflecting shield that surrounded the planet, they would have been prepared, but as it was, it hit him like a ton of dilithium. He had expected it to be hot in the binary star system, but nothing like this. Only Spock, accustomed to Vulcan's warmer climate, could possibly be comfortable.

The second was the lack of gravity. It was probably about half of Earth's, unusual for a planet as large as Jupiter.

The last thing was the group of Rodt'hir, lightly clad in toga-like robes, standing a few meters away, apparently oblivious to the sweltering temperature.

"We were sent to greet you," the leading Rodt'hir announced. "I am T'Kir. We will be your guides for your stay."

Kirk nodded his head, feeling as if that small movement would go on forever. "We are honored."

"The Dictar is waiting for you in the meeting hall. Follow us." T'Kir turned, leadingthe group into the nearest building.

The cool inside was, at first, only relative, but to the captain, it was bliss. As they followed their guides through long, twisted corridors, Kirk felt the sweat on his arms evaporate as the temperature steadily dropped, in direct relation to his scrambled sense of direction. Before long, he knew that only the Rodt'hir and Spock, with his tricorder, could find the door without a generous helping of blind luck.

_If it gets much colder, he thought, __Chekov will be the only one of us that's comfortable._

The young Russian would've agreed. 

At last, they could go no deeper. The hall opened into a giant chamber, brightly lit. The Dictar stood from his seat at a round table as they entered, his silvery clothing gleaming in the light.

"I am glad you could make it. I know that you are accustomed to lower temperatures; we had feared the heat had gotten the better of you."

"No," Kirk told him. "It would take longer than that to 'get the better of us'." A look flashed across Chekov's face that he could easily imagine meant that he should speak for himself. He wasn't even sure he was actually doing that anyway.

"I am glad; I'm afraid your stay must be prolonged, as I must attend to several pressing affairs of state. Feel free to talkwith the citizens of the city."

"We thank you," Kirk said, as humbly as he felt. He suddenly realized that it would be more informative to talk to the people.

As they left, he noticed that McCoy seemed to have nothing sarcastic that he was just dying to say, contrary to his nature. Richards looked apprehensive, but that was, after all, his job. Chekov did as well, but he dismissed the latter to the fact that they were going back up into the desert.

They followed their guides back up the winding hallways to the surface. As the air grew warmer, Kirk found himself wondering what had possessed him to agree to staying on the planet. The ship was cooler._ Much cooler. . . Then he discarded the thought; it had seemed like a good idea at the time, which it probably was._

When they reached the surface, every one broke into a sweat. The navigator, in fact, looked absolutely ill. He had almost decided to take them all back, good idea or no, when T'Kir broke into his thoughts.

"Your rooms are this way," he said, heading away while Spock and McCoywere following their own guides in the same direction. Kirk saw that Chekov and Richards were being led toward another white, cubical building that stood out against the sky. Kirk hurried to catch up.

"I regret that we have no cooler quarters," T'Kir was saying. "There is only one building with underground levels."

"Oh, I think we'll survive," the captain told him, flashing a surprisingly boyish grin. McCoy didn't appear to appreciate the statement.

"We will not be far away," T'Kir told them as they stopped by a building like the one the others had been heading toward, which contained three interconnected rooms, and left.

It was cooler inside, maybe as low as 35 degrees Celsius. Kirk was amazed to find himself almost getting used to the heat.

He flipped open his communicator as he was joined first by Spock, then by McCoy, who looked as if he needed to talk to him.

"_Scott here," came the metallic reply to his summons._

"Scotty! Have our friendly Klingons put in an encore appearance yet?"

"_Nay. We canna even be sure there is a Klingon. If there is, we havna seen hide nor hair o' him."_

"Well, keep looking. We've been. . . detained. It could be a while before we get back."

"_Aye, Captain." Kirk flipped the communicator closed again._

"Now, Bones, what were you going to say?" He flopped on the bed, and instantly decided not to do any more flopping. It was cooler, and almost as hard as a rock. 

"Weren't you a little quick to agree to staying here? You can't enjoy this heat any more than I do. Chekov looks as if he's going to faint if the temperature rises another degree," the doctor scolded.

"Is that your medical diagnosis?" Kirk joked. "Anyway, it's what we're here for. We'll get a better idea if we talk to the people than the government. They've got a less distorted view of things, and no reason to lie to us."

"I still think it's a bad idea," the doctor surrendered.

"On the contrary, " Spock answered. "The Captain's reasoning is intact, as far as it goes."

"Uh-huh. I'm sure that from a completely logical, unfeeling point of view, it's completely right. I, on the other hand, am not unfeeling-"

"Nor are you logical."

"-and I hate it."

"Gentlemen," Kirk broke in, cutting short whatever Spock had been about to reply. "We have a job to do. Let's go get Richards and Chekov and get it done." He rose and opened the door, then winced at the hot air that met him.

"Or perhaps we should wait for it to cool down some," he said abashedly.

Spock retired to his room as they settled down to wait for night.

Spock emerged from his room just before nightfall.

"Just as punctual as ever, Mister Spock," Kirk said, standing. He roused McCoy, who had been dozing in a chair.

"Time to go, sleeping beauty."

"Who...wha-...?" the doctor mumbled drowsily.

"You want a chance to suffer an authentic case of heat stroke, don't you?"

"Don't make fun!" McCoy reprimanded sharply, suddenly awake. 

Kirk only headed for the door, a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. "Calm down, Bones. I'm sure it's not that hot out there."

"It could be, " was the ominous reply.

"True," Kirk agreed. "Last time it was this hot, I was on Vulcan." He stepped out into the still hot desert night, starting in the direction of the other building, a darker shape against the stars. His comment went unappreciated, either because it was true, or because McCoy just didn't care.

Minutes into the walk, Spock summoned him.

"Captain, we are being followed. It is T'Kir, K'Tar, and S'Rek."

"Thank you, Spock." It didn't really worry him that their guides were behind them; most of the time, people didn't trust strangers. "If we don't bother them, they'll probably leave us alone."

"I hope so," McCoy grumped. "We don't need any problems beyond this infernal heat."

"I don't see why they wouldn't," Kirk said placidly. 

As they drew closer to the building, a Rodt'hircame out of the darkness. Kirk recognized her as J'Min, Richards's guide.

"Is something wrong?"

"Mr. Richards is ill, " shesaid. "He could not stand the heat."

"I knew something like this was gonna happen," McCoy muttered as he tried to move past her.She held him back easily.

"Hey, I'm a doctor!"

J'Min shook her head. "I'm sorry. Our healers are tending to him; he must be left absolutely alone after they are done."

"For how long?"

"Until they say so."

"What about Chekov?" Kirk broke in.

"The other is not ill. I will get him, if you desire." Kirk nodded and drew McCoy away as she moved toward the building.

"Calm down, Bones. Just let the Rodt'hir healers do their work. They're not going to poison him."

"Not intentionally, maybe."

"He'll be fine."

McCoy paused, then relented. "Yeah, you're _probably right."_

J'Min reappeared, Chekov, horribly pale, trailing behind.

"God!" McCoy whispered.

"Maybe you should go back up to the ship," Kirk told the young navigator, concerned. McCoy silently agreed.

The young Russian shook his head. "No, I will make it. Just. . . be sure I am still with you when we get there." He attempted a wan smile that looked more like a grimace, his words barely audible through his steadily thickening accent.

Something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. This whole situation just_ felt wrong._

He shook off his gloomy thoughts as they approached a settlement. Lights twinkled in windows and green-haired occupants moved in the streets.

"Finally!" Kirk breathed. McCoy wondered exactly how long he'd been preoccupied.

"Let's go talk to some people, shall we?" the captain continued. He started into the city, toward the nearest group of Rodt'hir.

Pavel Chekov was tremendously relieved when Jim Kirk told them to go back. Dawn was coming fast, and, while the night was by no stretch of the word cool, the full daytime heat could probably kill most humans. Certainly him.

As they started the long trek back to their rooms, he wondered why he was so certain that something was wrong. There was no evidence to support the idea. Even Sam's getting sick was no surprise; the only unexpected aspect of that was that it had been Richards, not himself.

_I'm just nervous he told himself. __As long as I don't screw up, everything will be fine._

When they finally reached Kirk, Spock, and McCoy's building, he split off from the group and went in his own direction. They morning was barely started, and he already felt ready to boil. It was not a nice feeling. __

_This must be how it feels in midsummer on Vulcan, he thought. He'd never had any urge to see Spock's home planet._

The whole planet was shielded from the ship's sensors. How they could manage that and still let transporter beams through, he had no idea. If he'd known the planet was a desert, he would've stayed on the ship. Now, though, seeing as he was here, he wasn't about to go back to the _Enterprise without either a direct order, or an emergency. Or making a royal fool of himself, which was a constant threat._

_Finally, he thought as the building came into sight. The white, sharp-cornered structure stood out starkly against the soft blue-green of the sky, silhouetted by the mid-morning suns. Barely visible above the door were some symbols, looking almost Cyrillic. It was odd, though, how he had never noticed something so resembling his native language. If one of the suns had been shining on them, they would've been impossible to see, white on white._

He tried to keep himself at a walk up to the door, and failed miserably. He decided he didn't care. The door was not computerized, but it was easy enough to figure out; push on one side, the other swings outward.

Inside, it was maybe five degrees cooler, but it was cooler. He turned up the lights and let the door swing shut as he walked over to the bed, stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt. He threw it along with his phaser and communicator on the bed. 

He heard a noise, like a quiet footstep, behind him and spun around. He caught only a glimpse of a Rodt'hir before a double-fisted blow meant for the back of his head caught his temple instead. He spun as he fell, grabbing for his phaser with one hand. His fist closed around his communicator, but he had only enough time to flip it open before another blow landed on the base of his neck, knocking him unconscious. 

Jim Kirk sagged, weary of arguing with the doctor. 

"Bones, _nothing is wrong. Richards is being 'healed', we're all here, everybody is fine, and we're almost done here. __What do you think is wrong?"_

"I don't know," McCoy replied stubbornly, "but something is."

"If you don't know, why tell me? There's nothing I can do about it."

Spock regarded his captain with a raised eyebrow. 

McCoy was about to retort when Kirk's communicator beeped. He grabbed it, thankful for the distraction, and flipped it open.

"Kirk here."

His only response was a muffled thud.

"What the hell . . .? Scotty? Who's there?"

He got no reply.

He flipped the communicator closed and back open quickly.

"Kirk to _Enterprise."_

"_I'm here, Cap'n," Scott replied. "__Is somethin' wrong?"_

"Uh, no, nothing. I thought there was trouble. _Is everything all right up there?"_

"_Aye, Cap'n. We havna been able to see any Klingons, but there's nothin' wrong."_

"All right, I'll. . . get back to you later." He flipped it closed, then tried calling his navigator. This time, there was no response. McCoy was at the door when he closed the communicator the final time.

"Don't be dumb, Bones," he said dejectedly. "The heat would kill you."

"You think Chekov's doing too much better?"

"No," he admitted, "but I think you'll be doing everyone involved a favor if you wait until nightfall."

"I will go," Spock said suddenly. "Captain?" Kirk nodded, and he left.

Kirk watched from the edge of the room's only chair as McCoy paced in the small space, even more nervously than the doctor. Spock was the logical choice to go, being fromVulcan, but he wished he could be doing something. He would've outpaced McCoy if he thought there was enough room. He had almost decided to take everyone back to the ship when Spock returned, with T'Kir and L'Kim, Chekov's Rodt'hir guide, following.

"What happened, Spock?" McCoy pressed.

"Mister Chekov," Spock said, "has apparently fallen ill." He was not surprised, but he didn't tell them either that, or that he hadn't been allowed to see the young ensign. "He is being tended by the Rodt'hir healers."

"Dammit!" McCoy said. "I knew it, Jim."

"I know, Bones." L'Kim stepped forward as Kirk answered the doctor.

"We regret that two of your party have taken sick, and do not wish you any more ill luck. Perhaps you should return to your ship."

Jim looked at his two friends, torn by indecision. McCoy was obviously anxious to leave; it was what he'd been preaching all along. Spock's non-expression revealed nothing, but he was probably for staying and doing the job they were here for.

"No," he said thoughtfully. "No, we'll stay until tomorrow morning. We should have everything we need by then." L'Kim bowed slightly.

"We will ''beam' your crew members to your ship when they have recovered."

Spock responded with his characteristic raised eyebrow. Jim felt his jaw try to drop. McCoy responded with considerably less restraint. 

"Beam? You mean like a transporter?"

A faint patronizing smile touched T'Kir's mouth.

"Did you believe that no civilization you did not know of had developed the transporter?"

"The odds are against it," Spock agreed.

"I, uh, guess I just never thought of it."

"If they recover before you leave, they will accompany you."

Kirk nodded. "Thanks." The Rodt'hir left.

"Do me a favor, Bones. Don't say I told you so."

"I wouldn't dream of it," the doctor replied solemnly.

When Chekov awoke, he was lying on a hot stone floor. His whole body ached, making him feel as if he'd been dragged around the planet. He slowly sat up, wincing at the pain in his forehead, and inspected his surroundings.

He saw that his initial impression was wrong; the floor was metal, as were the walls, not stone. Come to think of it, the Rodt'hir didn't build with stone. He saw the small pool of drying blood where his head had been and touched his temple. He wasn't at all surprised at the blood that was still oozing from it, or at the pain; only that the second blow hadn't broken his neck.

Inspecting the walls, he couldn't even see a door, much less figure out how to leave. The only opening into the room was a small window, covered with metal grating. The a sun shone straight into the room, heating the floor, making the small room into an oven. He doubted it was an accident.

He stood and tentatively peered out the window, shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight, and saw only an endless brown desert. The window was high on the side of a building, facing out at nothing. Looking down at an uncomfortably steep angle, he could see the roofs of buildings below. _Far below._

He stepped away from the window, suddenly realizing that he was afraid of heights. He found the coolest wall, almost blisteringly hot even though it was out of the sun, and sat almost touching it; he didn't think that his bare back would stand leaning against it.

_Dumb, dumb, dumb! he yelled a himself. He shouldn't have let himself be captured by the Rodt'hir.___

_He wondered if everyone else had believed that the heat had made him sick, and concluded that they probably had. __He would've believed it …… had, actually.At least the feeling of impending doom was gone._

He almost laughed at that. He didn't feel that something had gone wrong; he _knew something had gone wrong._

For what felt like forever, he just sat, trying to figure out how to escape, trying to think at all, but the heat made thinking torture. He tried pacing once, but moving only multiplied his discomfort. Finally, he just sat. 

_They're trying to cook me, he thought, and decided it wasn't very funny. To keep his mind occupied, he tried to figure out why the seemingly peaceful and well-liked Rodt'hir would do something like this. They didn't need a place to live, and they could get just about anything they needed or wanted after they were admitted to the Federation. And without this, they almost certainly would have been admitted._

_Yeah, and they still will be, he thought. __Who's going to tell them? Everyone else thinks I'm sick. Am I__ going to get out of here__ to tell them otherwise? HA!_

Anyway, he wouldn't make a very good hostage, not if they wanted ransom. Captain Kirk would have been a better choice; Starfleet cared about him. What could the possibly want with a lowly ensign, newly assigned to the best ship in the fleet?

Only sneaking, treacherous warriors like Romulans or Klingons-

_Korma! _

Maybe that was the key to the whole thing. These people weren't Klingons, but they were sure acting like them. Perhaps they had conquered the unexplored part of the galaxy they came from; perhaps they were fleeing because they'd failed. Probably all his guesses were way wrong, but at least thinking about it kept him sane.

He heard machinery behind one of the barriers -he couldn't tell which one, with all the echoes rebounding from the metal walls- and stood up too quickly. Nausea overwhelmed him, making him fight to hold down his last meal. He stumbled against a wall and almost yelped, holding his burnt hand. He was a little surprised that he hadn't left any skin hanging in the patch of sunlight he'd touched.

_Morbid. Very morbid. _

A section of the wall slid away, revealing an old-fashioned turbolift, an. . . elevator. Out of that minor curiosity came a creature that was like nothing he had ever seen before. The only word that he could come up with was grotesque; at the sight of the sagging rolls of flesh and seemingly deformed facial features, and the stench of rotting fish and burning flesh, his already precariously-controlled stomach revolted. He fell to his hands and knees, throwing up everything he had. Black spots danced in front of his eyes, but he climbed to his feet, reluctantly, and breathed shallow breaths, keeping his eyes turned carefully away from the doorway. 

"How do you think I feel about _you?" came a mechanical, but still somehow disdainful, voice; Chekov guessed he (she? it?) was wearing some sort of translator, though he didn't want to look to find out. "At least **I keep a hold on my physiological reactions. Come with me, if you are quite done." He came anyway.**_

As soon as he stepped into the ponderously slow machine, never looking at his companion, he knew that if he had not thrown up already, he would have right then. The temperature differed so greatly from the metal room that he almost went into shock. His breath came in short gasps, a fact for which he was immediately sorry. The rotten, nose-plugging, throat-clogging, nauseating, heart-stopping, god-awful _smell was overpowering in the claustrophobic confines of the vehicle. And he couldn't escape it. He started wishing he'd stayed where the air was at least breathable. _

He quelled the thought as soon as he recognized it. Chekov knew how absolutely suicidal it was. The temperature was at least capable of supporting life here. If a little (or a lot of) smell was all he had to take, he thought he could handle it.

Or so he told himself.

He wasn't sure if he felt or heard the thump when the elevator stopped, but knew it did. Contrary to all his logic, he was grateful to away from the room, away from the being in the small space with him, grateful that the car stopped. He knew that things could really only get worse from here on, at least for a while, but he would manage to escape.

"Get out, you putrid little creature," the alien ordered. He did so gladly.

Outside the door, two Rodt'hir were waiting, with phasers. He didn't need to wonder where they'd gotten them from. He simply stood between them silently until they led him away. Suicide would not be a constructive option to pursue.

They led him through a maze of corridors, even deeper and more tangled than the meeting hall tunnels, quickly and surely getting him lost.

_Well, no finding the front door, then, he thought wryly._

Finally, they reached a room. It was huge, cavern-like,airy except for the knowledge that it was underground. Rodt'hir, creatures like the one that had escorted him to the ground floor, smaller ones that resembled cats, and beings not even remotely humanoid, all inhabited the large room, but it was still by no means crowded. An unnatural silence covered the room, broken only by 

-_spy he's a -_

-_zapstick gonna use it the zapstick an' interrogate 'im-_

occasional phrases that seemed thought more than spoken.

The reason for the empty feeling was simple: there was no room for people. Tables, objects, and temporary barriers took up most of the room and obscured the rest from view. The Rodt'hir in front of him moved forward, navigating through the maze. M'Lom, behind him, stuck his phaser in the small of Chekov's back, the smooth metal cool against his skin, warning him not to try anything. Too bad. This would be the perfect place to make a run for it.

_Yeah? To where? I can't even find the way back to the elevator. They built__ this place. And__ I'm surrounded._

He studied the objects that took up so much of the room as he passed, but he couldn't tell what any of them did. If they did anything. Some of them looked more like sculptures than anything else.

When they reached the other side of the room, M'Lom relaxed the phaser, just enough that it wasn't touching his captive. Chekov tried to concentrate on getting away, and how he was going to make that happen, but it was impossible.

It felt like there was a river, moving around him, swirling around his brain, distracting him more than he would've thought possible even an hour ago. He tried to find an explanation for it, but he wouldn't accept the only one he could come up with. It was pretty much-

_-gonna interrogate-_

_-little why are humans so little-_

_-hairless ugly little hairless __creatures aren't they-_

_-gonna use the zapstick?-_

_-hope I hope so-_

_-fun this'll be fun fun-_

-impossible.

He hoped.

Just as a test, hoping to prove his theory wrong, he thought as hard as he could.

_-where are you taking me where are you-_

Unfortunately, it worked. 

He was rewarded by a flurry of confused conversation.

-_stop hear he can-_

_-impossible humans can't none-_

_-this one different is maybe-_

_-maybe get to him use minds-_

_-no zapstick?-_

_-still yes we can that do that yes-_

He asked a question that he didn't really want the answer to, but had to know.

_-what is a zapstick?-_

Silence followed, broken only by a single thought.

_-...fun...-_

He wished he could believe that.-


	2. chapter 2

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

CHAPTER2

As they approached a closed door-

_-fun zapstick is fun-_

_-find out now hee you get to hee hee-_

-the thoughts picked up again. He tried to block them, and was surprised to find that it was possible, though it took some concentration. 

K'Kor, in front of him, opened the door and stepped inside, giving Chekov a clear viewof what was inside. He refused to go any further.

The center of the room was occupied by a chair that looked like it was made of red gel. He smelled a horrible stench, horrifyingly familiar.Two more Rodt'hir were waiting by the chair, grinning, holding long metal rods. It looked downright dangerous, but if that had been all, he probably would have gone in. He just had a really, _really bad feeling about that room. _

M'Lom prodded him, but when he still held back, the alien got tired of resistance and simply pushed his prisoner in. He was stronger than he looked.

K'Kor intercepted the Russian and struggled to get him seated in the chair. Chekov took a wild swing at his temple, but only connected with his nose when he pulled away.

As the Rodt'hir was retreating, Chekov heard the worst sound he'd ever imagined, a high, shrill whistle that seemed to die abruptly. He didn't hear himself scream as he fell to his knees and covered his ears.

The waiting Rodt'hir grabbed his arms while he was recovering and forced him into the chair. The seat molded like gel, but the arms and base grew around his wrists and ankles. It burned like acid where it touched his skin, and held like elastic, giving a little before snapping back painfully.

He glanced up quickly, noticing K'Kor's obviously broken nose and the expected sickening creature, announced by the smell. The round alien was moving his mouth, talking silently, walking silently.

But that was impossible. Nothing that large could move silently, not in an atmosphere. He had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn't in any hurry to have proven. He simply waited, knowing the truth would be revealed all too soon, already knowing it. 

They turned back to him, forming a semi-circle around the front of the chair. He let his head drop to his chest, expecting something, but not what happened.

He felt them probe his mind, then begin in earnest, searching through his memory. In a second he knew more about them than any-one else in the Federation. A second later, he screamed, unknown to himself.

If the thoughts before were a river around his brain, this was his brain tumbling unprotected through white-water rapids. And hitting every sharp-cornered rock on the way down. Every thought of the aliens felt as if it was stabbing his brain, gouging and ripping and tearing. The pain was unbearable.

Finally, they let up. They withdrew and consulted among themselves, poring over his memories. He just sat there, trying to simultaneously ignore the pain and the smell and the fact that he couldn't hear anything.

The aliens broke their connection and drew the metal rods from their clothing, grinning. He shrank away, not liking their anticipation. Anything that could make them excited could only make him miserable.

K'Kor touched the rod to his shoulder. He tried to squirm away, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from screaming. He felt power surge through his shoulder, seeming to tear it apart from the inside out. It was almost as bad as a Klingon agonizer, overloading his nerves in the same way.

He looked at his shoulder for a second when K'Kor stepped away, then turned away, disgusted. It did, in fact, look like it had been torn apart. He tried not to pass out. 

M'Lom stepped forward as he drew away from the "zapstick" the Rodt'hir held. The alien spoke, knowing full well that Chekov couldn't hear. After he was done, he held the weapon to the Russian's knee. He felt the power pour into his knee, exploding the joint. He screamed, and the aliens grinned. 

It seemed to go on forever, always the same. They enjoyed it. His throat was hoarse and raw; he supposed he had long-since lost his voice, not that it mattered. The Rodt'hir delighted in every movement of agony he made. He wished he could pass out, die, anything to escape the pain, but his mind stubbornly clung to consciousness.

K'Kor backed off yet again, an eternity later. No one took his place. He and M'Lom grabbed his arms and pulled him from the chair, as the bands absorbed into the chair. Their hands against the burned skin exploded it into new agony, but that was nothing compared to M'Lom's grip on his ruined right shoulder. He fell to his knees and they dragged him back to his feet. He wheezed as they hauled him back to the elevator, wondering how many of his ribs they'd broken. 

Their way was clear, even the museum room. The elevator's doors opened automatically as they approached, whooshing like the doors on the _Enterprise. He gingerly leaned against the wall because he had nothing else to support him as the doors closed and they started moving__. _

_When the doors opened again, it was onto the small, metal room. He hung back, remembering the temperature difference. K'Kor pushed him inside, which made him stumble on his broken leg. His breath wheezed as the pain and temperature finally rendered him unconscious._

When he came to, he was lying in a pool of blood that seemed to be steadily seeping from his pores. He knew it wasn't so, but that was the impression he got. 

He tried to roll over, and got a fresh protest for his efforts. He settled for pushing himself to his right knee with his left hand, fighting to ignore his agonized ribs. The room was still stifling hot, maybe more so than before. 

He limped and wheezed his way to the wall, trying to remember how long the days were; this one seemed to have lasted forever. Perhaps it was another day. It didn't really matter, though; the rest of the landing party would have gone back to the ship, waiting for the return of him and Ensign Richards. They would probably be told, regretfully, that they had died and to please have Starfleet send only races that could stand the heat.

To keep himself sane, he examined the Rodt'hir memories; they seemed to have exchanged with him. He was surprised by what he learned, mainly because it was exactly what he had been thinking.

These people were part of the main government, though there was a minor civil war going on. The group of rebels would do anything to overthrow the government, a monarchy ruled by an especially telepathic family. The races in the Alliance _liked seeing other people _

in pain. They were a race of conquerors, who infiltrated other races and ruled by their minds. They thought the _Enterprise was here to spy on them. He saw how they'd killed the security guard. _

The young Russian fell to his knees and threw up again. He decided that it was probably not a good idea to think about the fact that it was mostly blood.

What he did think about was the layout of the building, now that he knew it. He thought that if he could he could get to the bottom of the elevator, he could find his way out. If he could walk, that was.

He stood and tried it. Each step shot a spike of agony into his knee, but with practice, he thought he could manage it without killing himself. It would wreck his leg, probably forever, but at least he had a shot at still having a forever. 

He sat still, waiting for someone to come after him again. 

Of course, the suns would probably fry him, but still. . . 

"There is definitely something fishy going on here," McCoy told an unresponsive Spock. "Jim just doesn't act that way."

"I must agree, Doctor, and I have a theory as to the reason." They were within sight of the settlement, Kirk having stayed behind to talk with the Dictar.

"So you're not going to tell me."

" Correct." Spock suddenly turned his head toward the desert.

"What is it, Spock?"

"Stay here," the Vulcan replied. McCoy, of course, ignored him and never left his side as he strode off into the desert.

Soon they spotted something lying on the featureless terrain.

"What's that, Spock?"

"That," Spock said, "appears to be a person."

"What!?" 

Spock saw no need to repeat his explanation

The darkness made it almost impossible for McCoy to recognize who was lying on the ground until they were only two meters away, though Spock could have told him almost since he'd first seen him.

"Why, it's Chekov! And not in very good shape, by the looks of it."

"Indeed."

McCoy brought out his medical tricorder and ran it over the ensign's body.

"Good gods!" he exclaimed aloud. "He can't have _walked out here! Shattered knee, femur broken in two places, six broken ribs, shoulder effectively nonexistent,-"_

"Spock to _Enterprise," the Vulcan summoned through his communicator._

"Enterprise_ here."_

In the background, McCoy's litany continued unbroken.

"Beam us up immediately, and have a medteam standing by."

"_Aye. Enterprise__ out."_

The transporter's familiar hum filled his ears as the desert faded out...

...And was replaced by the _Enterprise's main transporter room.McCoy went on, barely aware of the change in scenery._

"-concussion, internal injuries, massive blood loss. This man shouldn't even be alive, really, let alone going anywhere!"

"My god!" Kyle, the transporter operator, gasped, after he looked up.

Spock walked to the console and depressed the button for the intercom.

"Spock to bridge."

"Scott here."

"Please instruct Lieutenant Uhura to call Captain Kirk and tell him that I request he return immediately; we have Mr. Chekov onboard."

"Aye."

"Spock out."He clicked it off.

"Where's that damned medteam?" McCoy complained as the doors whooshed open. The medteam entered with an antigrav gurney and lifted Chekov onto it and left, McCoy talking to Nurse Chapel all the way. 

Kyle stared after them horror.

"What happened to him, Mister Spock?"

"Unknown." 

The intercom bleeped for Kyle's attention. He clicked it on.

"Transporter room."

"Prepare ta beam up Cap'n Kirk," Scott told him.

"Aye, sir."

"Bridge out."

Kyle pulled the levers that activated the transporter, and Kirk materialized on the platform. 

"Hello, Spock,"he said as he stepped down. "What's so urgent it can't wait?"

"We have found Mr. Chekov, in the desert. he is in sickbay now." They left the transporter room, heading in the direction of sickbay. 

"Do you know what happened to him? He was supposed to be with the Rodt'hir healers."

"I do not know, as yet."

"Sickbay to Spock."

He strode to the nearest intercom and pressed the button.

"Spock here."

"Get your computerized self down here," McCoy told him. "I need your help, deciphering what Chekov is telling me. Bring Jim with you if he's back yet."

"Indeed. I shall be down presently," he returned without so much as raising an eyebrow. He clicked it off and started down the corridor with Kirk.

Chekov looked terrible. 

McCoy had repaired some of the internal injuries and almost all of the more severe lacerations when he woke up. His eyelids fluttered and opened, and he tried to bolt upright, seeing only the ceiling of the sickbay. 

"Hey, it's okay," McCoy told him, putting a hand on his shoulder, holdinghim down. He was dismayed by the ease at which he held the younger man, usually so strong. His patient's eyes landed on him, and recognition dawned. He leaned back in relief.

"Capritan Kirk," he said softly. "Oogosdat."

The doctor raised his eyebrow. "What?" Chekov didn't appear to have heard him.

He hurried to he intercom on his desk and called Spock. As an afterthought, he called Kirk too. 

He walked back to where Chekov was lying on the bed and gave him a sedative. It would calm him down but leave him coherent enough to talk. There was a lot of work to be done on him yet; it was still uncertain if he would live. 

Kirk and Spock arrived a few minutes later. McCoy led Spock to Chekov's bed, then returned to his office, where Kirk was waiting. 

"Well?" the captain prompted.

"You don't want to know. Eight broken bones, two ruined joints, concussion, massive internal injuries, excessive blood loss. He looks like he's been through a barfight with an Orion."

Kirk whistled. "That bad?"

The doctor nodded. "His insides are a mess. He probably wouldn't look much worse if he'd been put through a blender." 

Kirk didn't follow the reference, but understood the sentiment. So much for short, easy assignments.

He followed McCoy into the sickbay and got his first look at the worst medical case he'd ever seen that still breathed. The Russian was pallid and drawn, a sharp contrast to the vibrant, if nervous, young ensign that usually filled the navigator's position on the bridge. His dark hair was tousled but lay limp against his head, the only color visible. The rest of his body, what showed, was a uniform ashen shade of alarming paleness. His right shoulder had an odd, deflated look, and he was covered with sickening gashes which looked like they had been made from the inside out. It obviously hurt him to breathe. At that moment, he looked about sixteen years old to Kirk, even though he was almost twenty. Kirk felt a surge of anger that anyone should be allowed to do this to one of his crewmen.

As they looked, he was gripped by a wracking cough that was painful to watch. When it was over he absently wiped a trail of blood from the corner of his mouth with a weak hand.

McCoy frowned at this small sign of distress, anxious to get back to work. The captain was impatient to leave himself, but composed enough to wait for Spock. 

The Vulcan seemed to be carrying on a conversation in gibberish, but it was only the sound of a language he didn't speak.

"Anything, Spock?" 

"I will be able to tell you in it's entirety a moment, Captain," he replied, turning back toward Chekov.

"_Ti ne v sostojany slishat?" __You cannot hear?_

"_Nyet," Chekov replied after a moment.__No. He looked embarrassed, more than usual, and very sick. "__Ya enat oney pamyat." __I have their memories. He shuddered involuntarily but painfully._

Spock inclined his head in thanks and turned toward the office, moving around McCoy as he hurried to the bedside. 

"Well?" Kirk prodded when they were seated. "What was he trying to tell us?"

Spock raised an eyebrow at what he knew, considering, but answered the captain at length. 

"Essentially, to leave immediately."

"What about Richards? He's still down there."

"He is dead. He was killed much the same way Mr. Chekov was tortured." 

Kirk's eyebrows reached for his hairline. "Tortured?"

"Yes, Captain. From what I gathered, the Rodt'hir are nothing but conquerors, enslaving inferior races and forming alliances with stronger ones. They are highly telepathic, and overpower other races using these powers. They wished to determine if humans were stronger or weaker than their races, by probing minds, demanding information, and torture with a unique weapon, called a 'zapstick'. It essentially sends an electric charge through the immediate part of the anatomy it touches, rupturing the tissue. Ingeniously designed, I might add. Mr. Richards was their first experiment; he died before they could complete their tests.

"They did not wish to have to use high-ranking officers, which they believed would cause a major issue. They next took Ensign Chekov, their first choice, though they had taken Ensign Richards first to supposedly avoid any security problems. 

"He was held in a metal room, designed to act as a furnace, while they deceived us into believing that he was sick. They then took him to a room where they probed his mind with theirs and used their zapstick. He lost his hearing while trying to resist. 

"When he finally got an opportunity to escape from his room, he took it and managed to travel into the desert, where we found him."

As Spock finished his narrative, McCoy broke in.

"I can't believe he went anywhere in that leg. It's broken in two places, and the knee is demolished. And, for your information, there is nothing wrong with his ears."

"It is my experience that humans may do seemingly impossible things when the need is strong enough," Spock countered.

Kirk pondered all the new information he'd been given as McCoy went back to work. 

He finally reached for the intercom and pressed the button, summoning the bridge.

"_Scott here."_

Kirk was just about to speak when he heard the familiar sound of a transporter behind him. He was out of his seat a split second after Spock, reaching the door a step behind his first officer, just in time to see the fading green sparkle of an unfamiliar transporter beam. When it disappeared, so did McCoy and Chekov.

He rushed back into the office.

"Scotty, who the hell did that?!"

"_I dinna know, Cap'n. Did they get anyone?"_

"McCoy and Chekov. 'They' who?"

"_I dinna know that either. Someone just beamed them off."_

"Could it have been the Rodt'hir?"

"_Aye, but why would they-"_

"Never mind that now. We need to get down to the planet, after some preparation."

"_It's more likely t' be the other ship, if it's there."_

"We'll just have to assume that it is. Any suggestions on how to search a planet and a ship?"

"Start with the capitol city on the planet," Spock suggested after a moment. 

Kirk clicked off the intercom and headed for the nearest turbolift with Spock.

Scott surrendered the command chair when Kirk and Spock came onto the bridge. The Vulcan assumed the science station from the ensign who manned it and peered into the viewer.

"Why were our shields not up?" Kirk demanded.

"I figured the other ship would run away if they thought we'd spotted them, and that's probably how they'd interpret our shields," Scott explained meekly.

"Captain," Spock spoke up. "The planet is still shielded. We cannot scan it."

"Damn. Okay, where's the capitol city?"

"Benj'hiro is nearer to the northern pole, making it more suitable for human visitation."

"So it's cooler."

Spock raised an eyebrow in supposed confusion. "I believe I just said that."

Kirk rose from the chair. "Let's go then. We're going to need some making up first."


	3. chapter 3

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

CHAPTER 3

Oneminute, Doctor McCoy was in his sickbay, preparing to repair Chekov's shoulder. The next thing he knew, he was standing in some sort of metal room, wondering who had transported him where, and why. As soon as they were free of the transporter beam, his patient fell to the floor, a look of almost comic confusion on his face. Of course; he'd materialized over a meter off the floor.

The doctor knelt beside him.

"Are you okay?" 

Chekov rolled over. 

"That hurt," he said flatly. It was quite possibly the biggest understatement ever, but it fit. He hurt in places he didn't even know existed. His bones groaned in protest every time he moved. 

"We should move over there," he told the doctor, motioning to a wall. McCoy helped him up and assisted him to the wall furthest from the sun, then sat, leaning against it. 

"I do not think we want to fry," he continued. "It will get hot enough in here. . ."

McCoy nodded in agreement. "I hear ya," he muttered. After being raised in Georgia, he had never wondered why he chose to live in a climate-controlled environment.

He lightly touched the ensign's uninjured shoulder. "Do you know where we are?" he asked after Chekov opened his eyes and looked at him. He thought he already knew, but he hoped he was wrong.

The younger man paused for a moment, trying to decipher what he'd said. Finally, he nodded.

"Nodya."

On the planet. Great. Just what they'd needed.

"The Captain will have to guess where we are," he continued dejectedly. "He cannot scan the planet, and we do not even know where this is." He closed his eyes and leaned back again. By habit, McCoy noted how pale and drawn he looked, how exhausted he sounded, more than could be accounted for by his medical condition. He couldn't tell if he was sick beneath all that pain, or something else.

He wished he had something to do. In fact, he wished he had his sickbay here. No, he wished he was _in his sickbay, on the __Enterprise, warping straight out of this solar system, instead of in this god-forsaken oven. _

He rose to his feet and started pacing, in spite of the stifling heat.

Chekov opened his eyes.

"You should not do that. It is hazardous to your health."

McCoy smiled, acknowledging his attempt at humor, but kept pacing until he decided it was simply too much trouble and sat beside Chekov. He stared at the agonizingly similar walls and perfectly matched corners, aching for something to look at. It was hopeless. The barred window was the most interesting thing in the room, and he couldn't bring himself to decide to walk in the sunlight and touch the hot metal. Probably a wise decision.

Footsteps clanged behind one of the walls, drawing McCoy out of the stuporous semi-doze he hadn't even realized he'd entered. He jerked to face the wall to their left, opposite the window.

A panel of the wall slid away, revealing a Rodt'hir and a distinctly feline humanoid., both wearing the toga-like garments common to the planet.

"We are sorry to have kept you waiting," the Rodt'hir said mechanically as the feline knelt beside Chekov. "D'Va will help your friend."

"Thecatlike D'Va drew an ancient medical device from inside her toga, (McCoy wasn't sure how he knew she was a 'she', but he did), which had a needle on the end which looked more like it belonged in a Klingon torture chamber than in anybody's hospital. It was filled with some sort of clear liquid. She stuck the needle into Chekov's arm, waking him in the process, and injected the liquid into his bloodstream despite his startled and protesting face before the doctor could really think about it. 

"There," she purred. "He should begin to hear again soon."

"Why should I believe you?" McCoy asked cynically.

"Why shouldn't you?"

Chekov looked at her warily, but his expression slowly changed to one of reluctant wonder, even as McCoy was trying to convince D'Va that he didn't believe her. It was like arguing with Spock.

"Doctor," he said, breaking into the "discussion". "It worked." The doctor grudgingly acknowledged that she was right, then helped Chekov up.

"Follow us," the Rodt'hir commanded as he struck off down the hall. McCoy and Chekov hobbled after him, followed by D'Va. 

He'd expected it to be cooler outside, but he was still shocked at how _much cooler it was. He shivered and his arms broke out in goosebumps beneath his light shirt. He heard Chekov gasp, but that seemed tobe the extent of the Russian's reaction; he never knew how close Chekov came to pulling them both over sideways. _

He recognized the encroaching darkness for what it was and pulled himself back toward consciousness, feeling the ensign's right hand (how that must hurt!) supporting him, a concerned look on his face. 

"I'm all right," he mumbled. "Never did like the cold.."

Chekov lowered his arm with an unconscious grimace. McCoy straightened and looked after the Rodt'hir that had been leading them, who had vanished.

"Do you require assistance?"

The doctor spun around at the sound of D'Va's voice, accidentally causing Chekov to fall into the wall of the narrow corridor. He had, in fact, forgotten about her.

'Uh, no, I'm fine," he said after regaining his composure. "Is it far to where we're going?" He helped Chekov back up.

"No, it is not far. This way."She started forward, brushing past them.

"So, where are we going, anyway?" he asked, helping Chekov limp after her.

"To your new room." Her answers, just as simple and literal as Spock's, exasperated him. He gave up and walked in silence. 

He looked at the featureless off-white metal walls as they passed. There wasn't so much as a seam to see, an opening into another hallway, a door, or even a corner. They might have been in a dilithium mine for all the open room there was between the walls, spaced a meter apart. 

They rounded the first corner he'd noticed and saw, in the distance, a confusing starburst pattern where eight halls intersected. D'Va stopped by a door, also the first he'd seen, opposite of the Rodt'hir. 

"You will stay here," she told them unceremoniously.

McCoy stopped almost imperceptibly and regarded her, then continued inside. D'Va followed them inside and stood in the doorway.

"We know of the almost obsessive need humans have for privacy. You will be left alone." She turned on her heel and left, the door slamming shut behind her. 

The doctor surveyed the room. There were two wide, low mats that he supposed were beds, a built in clothes dresser, and a walled off section that was probably a bathroom.

"That makes no sense," Chekov said as he limped over to one of the beds. "Why are we here if we're just going to be left alone?"

"Uh-huh."

"Maybe they are studying us."

"Maybe, but I doubt it. Why would they need to?"

Chekov shrugged lopsidedly.

"What," the doctor mused, "could they get from kidnapping two Starfleet personnel that they couldn't get quicker and easier by becoming a member if the Federation?"

"War," Chekov said wearily. 

"Yeah, but I doubt they want war."

"Maybe they do."

"That's crazy. Who _wants war?"_

"Klingons, Romulans,-"

"Okay, I get the point. But why the Federation, if they want war? There are a lot of other races out there that would be a whole lot easier to conquer."

The Russian shrugged again. "A challenge."

McCoy only nodded.

Kirk and Spock, looking eerily like Rodt'hir, climbed onto the transporter platform, where Scott was at the controls. 

"Give us four hours," Kirk told the engineer. "If we don't report back by then, beam us out immediately."

"Aye."

"Energize."

The hum of the transporter filled his ears as the world faded out. 

. . . and then snapped right back in.

"Mr. Scott, I said 'energize'." 

"Aye, and I did. Somethin's blockin' the transporter; ye canna go down in the city." He took the transporter's inadequate performance as a personal insult.

"Try one kilometer north, and if that doesn't work, keep adding one until you get through," he said as he repositioned himself on the pad.

"Aye."

Again the hum sounded, and the room morphed into a desert scene. The unrelenting suns beat down on them, causing Kirk to shield his eyes. Spock started toward a dark smudge on the horizon, after consulting his tricorder and secreting it away in his toga again. The captain followed a step behind him.

"How long till you can tell if they're here?"

"Due to the limited range of my tricorder," Spock replied, "it may be several hours before I can get a definitive reading."

They walked in silence toward the city.

Chekov was sitting against the wall on his bed, wearing a Rodt'hir shirt he'd gotten from the dresser in the wall. 

He casually glanced up a McCoy. He saw instead a Rodt'hir, sitting much like he had been himself, head bowed, leaning against the wall. He jerked his head upright and banged it painfully against the wall behind him.

Before his eyes, the Rodt'hir seemed to morph into McCoy.

"You're one of them," he breathed as he backed into the corner.

McCoy looked up. "Hm?" he asked innocently.

"You're one of them. I saw you."

"What? Calm down." McCoy stood slowly. "What are you talking about?"

"You are! You're one of them!"

"Huh? One of who?" He started forward.

Chekov jerked his head toward the door. "_Them."_

A classic case of paranoia; a nameless 'them' and everybody was out to get him.

"Why do you say I'm one of them?"

"Stay away from me."

McCoy ignored him and kept going. "Why do you think so?" Wha he wouldn't give for his sickbay!

"I saw you; you changed. From one of them to you."

Great. He was paranoid _and dillusional._

He would even settle for a tricorder and a sedative.

"Hey, calm down. You were just hallucinating.." _Just?_

_What am I doing? I'm a doctor, not a psychologist!_

He stopped beside the bed, trying to calm the Russian.

Chekov hit him.

As he went sprawling, McCoy wondered at how much strength he had in one arm while the other was effectively useless. It was something he'd hoped never to have the opportunity to witness.

"Stay away from me. Don't come near me!"

As he picked himself up off the ground, the doctor hoped he'd be able to get out when Chekov got to the "get them before they get me" stage of paranoia. He hoped.

Kirk stopped by a building in the capitol city.

"Here?"

Spock nodded. "Several levels beneath us."

Night had long-since fallen, and the captain was grateful, though it was still hot.

Kirk opened the door and warily peered inside, temporarily forgetting that to anyone else, they were both apparently Rodt'hir. Nodding to Spock, he continued inside.

They found themselves in a long hallway, white and utterly featureless. It ended at a white and featureless door such as all the others they'd encountered on the planet. There wasn't a seam or corner anywhere in sight.

The door opened onto a three-way intersection of hallways, one going down, the next straight on, the last sloping up. Kirk chose the far left one, heading down.

"How far is it, Spock?"

"It is still some distance, Captain."

They walked in silence until they reached an intersection where seven other corridors branched away. Spock pointed at one and they continued on,

It had been hours since Chekov had last spoken to him, but McCoy had felt the younger man's gaze on him the whole time. It was making _him paranoid. _

Finally, he couldn't sit still any longer. He stood up and started pacing in the small space between the beds. Chekov was still watching him with the intensity of a tiger watching it's prey.

From a medical standpoint, he couldn't help wondering what was making the Russian act that way. He had finally decided that he was probably going insane, but something didn't quite ring true about that. 

He heard his roommate muttering and turned to look at him. He seemed to be arguing with himself.

"Are you okay?" _Besides going totally nuts he thought but didn't add to his question. For a moment he remained unnoticed, and he wished he hadn't been once he was._

Chekov shuddered violently and looked up at him suddenly, with eyes nearly devoid of sanity. The doctor took an involuntary step backward.

The Russian maneuvered himself off the bed and managed to stand shakily. He appeared to have reached a decision.

"You won't ever use that thing on anyone ever again," he said. He may as well have been speaking Russian of all that McCoy knew what he was talking about.

"Calm down," he told him, none too calm himself. He might as well have been talkingto a diagnostic bed for all that Chekov listened. He tried to conjure up the indignant doctor routine, but it didn't do much good faced with a madman. Chekov lurched forward, his insane eyes fixed on McCoy's. The doctor stepped back, but knew he was soon going to run out of floorspace.

For every forward step of Chekov'she took one back, and he soon ran into the wall as he'd predicted. Unfortunately, he had no plan A, never mind plan B.

"Never again," he heard, perhaps not even meant for him, then the world exploded.

Spock stopped at a closed door, blocked by a gelatinous red barrier.

"Behind here."

Kirk touched the blob, thinking it would be soft and pliant. Instead, it burned his hand like acid. He yanked it back, blistered.

"Fascinating," Spock said, consulting his tricorder. "It appears to be biotic, emitting a highly acidic compound when touched, making it effectively-"

"Spock," Kirk broke in. "Is there any way to get _through it?"_

"Perhaps." He took out his phaser, setting it to the highest setting, then aimed it at the blob and fired. It started smoldering, but otherwise remained intact until Kirk added his weapon to the fray. A hole appeared in the center and slowly burned its way outward. When all but a few tattered remains had been burned away, Kirk heard a muffled thud. He pushed on the door, which resisted only until they heard the hum of a transporter. 

It swung open, giving them a glimpse of a transporter beam's red sparkle, just before it faded away.

"It would appear," Spock observed, "that we are too late."

Kirk pulled out his communicator and flipped it open.

"Kirk to _Enterprise."_

"_Scott here."_

"Two to beam up, Mr. Scott."

He could hear the surprise in his engineer's voice. "_Aye."_

He flipped it closed and waited to be back on his ship. When it didn't happen, he called back.

"What's the problem."

"_Ye're gonna havta move back outta the city," Scott told him apologetically._

"Still being blocked?"

"_Aye."_

Kirk frowned, accompanied by Spock's raised eyebrow. "McCoy and Chekov were just beamed out."

He could hear the other man shrug. "_I dinna know how that's possible. We canna get you back now."_

"Understood. Kirk out." He closed it and turned to Spock.

"I suggest we get moving." Spock inclined his head and started walking after his captain.

As the transporter beam gripped him, McCoy was dimly grateful. Just as he was immobilized, so was Chekov. He could see the fading red sparkle even as his body tingled and the background morphed into unfamiliar grey-green walls and relative darkness.

He fell backward as the transporter released them, no longer supported by a wall. Chekov lunged clumsily forward, then stopped and retreated., a semblance of sanity returning to his eyes. The doctor considered their surroundings.

Even lying on his back on the floor, the faint hum of the engines told him that they were on a ship, and it sure wasn't the _Enterprise. The poor lighting, the colors, even the visible hexagonal shape of the panels that made up the walls, all pointed to one conclusion. He climbed to his feet dizzily and looked at their captors._

"I don't suppose," he said to the scowling Klingons, "that you'd care to call our ship for us."****


	4. chapter 4

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

CHAPTER 4

The Alliance Dictar strode from behind the mass of Klingons. The doctor could almost admire him for the way he seemed to command the respect of the savage crew, striding among them unafraid. Almost.

"Take that one, and do not damage him more than you must," the Rodt'hir said, pointing a slender finger at Chekov. "He is quite mad." Two of the dark-skinned warriors nodded and moved to grab Chekov by the arms, unmindful of his protests and his apparent pain. They escorted him through the door and out of sight.

"You, Doctor, will come with me," he said, ignoring the Klingons and Chekov.

"Do I have a choice?"

"No," the Dictar told him, "but it is better for all of us if you come willingly." McCoy shrugged and followed him from the room. 

"It is really quite inconvenient that your ensign escaped. If he had died as planned, you would not be here now. You could all be on your way back to your Federation, safe and sound."

"And two crewmembers less. I'm a doctor; I try to save people."

"But. . . I do not understand. They were not officers. Why should you care?" For the first time, the Rodt'hir looked confused. "Were they not expendable?"

McCoy stopped and stared at him incredulously. "Expendable?! Nobody is expendable."

The Dictar shook his head. "I do not understand how your military can function at all if no one is expendable."

"People are more willing to work for the military if they join it willingly; it makes people want to join Starfleet."

**He looked even more confused. "Why must people wish to join your military? Is it not customary to assign citizens to their positions in your society?"**

The doctor shook his head. "No. People choose what they want to do."

The Rodt'hir nodded thoughtfully. "I believe I understand now. I have seen this system before, but I had not believed any space-faring race naive enough to employ it."

"I didn't believe there could be any space-faring organization ruled by despots," McCoy returned smoothly.

"It is the only way. Your precious Federation will eventually break down while our Alliance prospers. You will see; force is the governing rule of life, and the only constant in the universe." He was irritatingly polite.

"Oh, I don't know about that. Democracy seems to be working pretty well so far." 

The green-haired alien shook his head wonderingly. "How naive you are, Doctor! You believe anything short of total control can govern a people?" He started McCoy forward again.

"Yes, I do. Perpetual martial law will only make your people unhappy, and they'll eventually revolt against you."

"And letting them govern themselves? It will make your people lazy, soft, and they will eventually be conquered. At least having revolted, they will still be free and in control."

"That's right; _your people are the conquerors. How forgetful of me." The doctor adopted his best sarcastic air._

The Dictar turned cold and motioned McCoy into the detainment cell he'd stopped them by. "I'm afraid I must cut short this enlightening discussion," he said. "Feel free to talk to the walls."

McCoy looked at him defiantly for a moment, then stepped into the cell, having nowhere else to go and to chance to fight.It appeared to be one of the larger ones, but the Klingons obviously had no use for comfortable prisoners. There was a hard bunk to sleep on, bare grey-green walls, and nothing else.

He sat on the bunk and sighed, staring at the metal walls as the Dictar activated the force field. The perfect end to a perfect day. Eventually, he fell asleep.

The doctor was awakened by a the small hiss of a hypospray. His eyes shot open without his consent, making him stare up at the dark face of a Klingon.

The Klingon bared his teeth -a gesture not meant as a smile- and stalked out of the doorway, reactivating the force field. McCoy sat up and absently rubbed his arm, even as his eyelids dropped.

_Musta been some sorta sedative he thought. He was out cold before his head hit the bunk._

Kirk and Spock stepped down from the transporter platform, heading directly to the bridge via the 'lift. 

Uhura glanced at them as they stepped out of the lift, then returned to her work. It occurred to the captain that the first duty shift had just begun. 

He took over the command chair from Scott. 

"Report."

"The Klingon ship sped in here like a bat outta hell, and left the same way," Scott told him. "They only stayed for a second, then went right back the way they came."

Kirk looked at him. "Long enough to transport someone off the planet?"

"Aye." 

"That would have to be at least three point six three seconds," Spock told him reprovingly. The engineer regarded him with a long-suffering look. 

"Ye dinna have to quote the details to me, Mister Spock. I know that piece of machinery like the back of my hand."

"An inadequate metaphor, at best, Mr. Scott."

Scott turned back to the captain. "It was at least three point five seconds, then, but we barely knew they were there before they were gone again. The shield around the planet disappeared for exactly that long." Spock seemed about to correct him again, so he did it himself. "Three point_ six three."_

"Mr. Sulu, take us within transporter range. Uhura, try to hail them." Kirk got "Aye"s all around and sat back as Scott retreated to the engineering station. He tried to relax even a little, but all the stress of the past few days was finally catching up to him. He settled for simply massaging his forehead, where he was getting the beginnings of a headache.

The hum of the ship's engines increased a level for a few seconds, then faded away again. 

"We're within visual range, Captain," Sulu told him.

"On screen."

The Klingon Bird-of-Prey appeared on the viewscreen, massive against the stars.

"Any luck?" he asked, turning to face Uhura.

"No, Captain. They're still ignoring us."

"They've raised their shields," Sulu reported.

"Shields," Kirk ordered automatically. 

"Incoming!" yelled the new navigator, an ensign Kirk didn't know. 

The bridge was lit by the red light of the phasers- disrupters, the Klingons called them- of the Klingon ship. The _Enterprise lurched with the hit, shaking the crew in their seats. _

"Damage," Kirk demanded when it stopped.

"Minor damage to forward deflector screen two, all else negligible," Spock reported. 

"Captain, they're hailing us," Uhura told him.

"On screen."

The dark, somewhat glossy face of the Klingon commander appeared on the screen. 

"Withdraw your ship, Federation captain," he growled. "We have claimed this system and its planets for the Klingon Empire."

"We have every intention of doing so, as soon as we recover some of our missing crewmen," Kirk said diplomatically, not feeling very diplomatic. 

"Pah!" the Klingon spat. "Federation lies. You wish to possess this planet. Leave immediately!"

"We have reason to believe that _you are holding our people," he bluffed, then paused, letting it sink in. "I demand that you return them immediately."_

The Klingon snorted. "What use would we have for two Earthers? Leave our space immediately or face the consequences!" Kirk glanced at Spock and saw his eyebrows climb.

"I'll. . . consider it." He motioned to Uhura to close the channel. "Well, Spock?"

The Vulcan didn't hesitate. "The Klingon commander has unwittingly incriminated himself with his statement of 'two Earthers', but it still remains to us to retrieve Doctor McCoy and Mr. Chekov; I doubt very much that the Klingons will willingly hand over their prisoners when confronted with the evidence. It is more likely that they would be killed." 

"Agreed. Course of action?" 

"I submit that further negotiations would be illogical, and we cannot beam anyone to or from the Klingon ship."

"That's all very helpful, but it only tells me what I can't do."

"I am merely pointing out that since those plans are illogical, we must find an alternative course of action," Spock told him.

"Such as. . . ?" Kirk prompted.

"We must get them to lower their shields." 

"They're charging their weapons, sir," Sulu reported.

"Brace for impact!" The ship rocked with the impact of the Klingon disrupters, flinging Uhura and Sulu from their seats.

"Cut all power, everything except life support and transporters!" Kirk ordered. The crew obeyed his orders, and soon it was dark and silent. The ship hung dead in space. "Kirk to transporter room."

"Kyle here."

"Can you get a lock on the humans onboard the Klingon ship?"

"Yes sir, just barely."

"Good. Do it."

"Done."

Kirk left the channel open, but no one spoke; it seemed sacrilegious to break the silence. 

"They've lowered their shields," Spock reported. 

"Beaming over a search party," Kirk mused. 

"Beam them back, now!" he said urgently into the speaker on the arm of his chair.

"Aye." They heard the hum of a transporter over the speaker, then Kyle's triumphant but worried voice."Got 'em, sir. Doctor McCoy's out cold and Ensign Chekov's. . . well, I think he's crazy, sir."

Kirk cut the connection and ordered Sulu to raise shields, then called the sickbay."

"Sickbay here."

"Get some people to the transporter room You've got work."

"Aye sir." Christine Chapel clicked it off.

"Get some people from security down there," he told Uhura. She nodded and called security.

"Lay in a course for Starbase Two," he told the ensign at the navigation station. 

"Course laid in, sir." 

"Warp two, Mr. Sulu." 

"Aye aye sir." Kirk noticed the ship humming faintly louder, then it faded into the background as the ship flew away from the planet and the Klingons.

"I'll be in sickbay," he said to no one in particular, and left.

McCoy awoke to find himself on the wrong side of a bed in sickbay. He sat up against the will of his head and tried to figure out when he had been brought there. 

"Lie down, Bones," he heard, his head floating a couple of feet above his body. He wondered why he wasn't seeing anything, then decided it might be helpful to open his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a Rodt'hir, standing over him like a mother hen. 

"Oh, it's you," he said, recognizing Jim Kirk. "My compliments to your surgeon."

"Well, it's nice to see you're your usual cheerful self," the captain commented. "It was Christine chapel."

"Shoulda guessed. Now why-" He was going to ask why he had gotten so drunk, then remembered the Klingons. "Never mind. Where are we?"

"Doctor," Kirk said reproachingly. "I would've thought you'd recognize your own sickbay!"

"That's not what I meant and you know it. Where are we going?"

"Back to Starbase Two," Kirk informed him. The doctor maneu-vered off the bed and started toward the door.

"Where do you think you're going, Bones?"

"Someplace else. Out there, technically." He didn't stop while he answered the captain and headed straight into the other half of the sickbay, not caring that his friend followed him.

As his eyes swept around the room, he noticed Chekov, restrained and sedated. 

"Not any better, is he?"

McCoy saw Kirk shake his head out of the corner of his eye. 

"Well, you can go back now. I'm not going to fall down," McCoy told him briskly. "Oh, and send down Spock when you can spare him."

"Sure thing, Doctor." The captain retreated to the bridge.

McCoy looked at the readings above Chekov and drew one simple conclusion: he was dying, and for no reason the doctor could surmise. He set life support equipment on automatic standby and drew a small hypospray to take a blood sample. It was only a hunch, but it was all he had at the moment.

He fed the sample to the computer in his office and sat down, suddenly tired. The pulse of the Russian's heartbeat and breathing on the monitor in the background tried to lull him to sleep, until he started coughing. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. No simple sedative could make his insides feel like lead and his lungs feel watery.

He drew a sample of his own blood and fed it into the computer as well. 

"Computer, is there any thing unusual about these two samples of blood?" he asked it.

"Working," the machine said flatly. "Sample A: unusually high levels of adrenaline, concentrations of triformalhyde dicarbonate, traces of neutralized Altairian Flu, high concentrations of living micro-organisms on the level of a disease-"

"Computer, stop. Go to sample B."

"Traces of triformalhyde dicarbonate, high concentrations of unknown foreign substance, complete absence of all bacteria and living micro-organisms."

"What is the nature of the foreign substance?"

"Unknown."

"Okay, what does this substance _do?"_

"Foreign substance affects the walls of internal organs and causes massive bleeding and deterioration on a cellular level."

"How does the disease in sample A effect the body?"

"Disease effects nervous system, causing delusions, paranoia, insanity, coma, and death." McCoy winced, more alarmed by this diagnosis than that of his own blood; Chekov was already in a coma. The triformalhyde dicarbonate didn't worry him at all; it was simply the standard sedative used in Starfleet, and, apparently, by the Klingon Empire.

"Computer, has a disease with symptoms matching these ever been reported within the Federation?"

"Affirmative."

"Where?"

"Alpha Xi IV, Ceti Omicron II, Omega Alpha VII, Beta Ceti III, Beta Ceti VI."

"Have any been reported matching the symptoms of sample B?"

"Affirmative."

"Where?"

"Alpha Xi IV, Ceti Xi I, Zeta Xi VI, Beta Ceti III."

"How close are those systems to the Beta Xi system?"

"The furthest listed system is seventy-five point one light years distant. Each is a neighboring system."

"What is the treatment for this disease?"

"Incurable."

"What is the treatment for the disease in sample A?"

"Incurable."

"Computer off."

Jim Kirk stepped onto the bridge. 

"Lieutenant Uhura, send a priority message to Starfleet Command. Tell them 'The Rodt'hir have proven actively hostile, killing one member of the _Enterprise crew and leaving two others in serious condition. The solar system has been unfortunately claimed by the Klingons, after they opened fire on us. We are returning to Starbase Two'. Send them a copy of my log as well." He had included everything they'd learned about the Rodt'hir in his log, along with Chekov's story as related by Spock._

"Aye sir," Uhura told him, almost her usual cheery self. It was slightly disconcerting to look at the Captain's chair and see a Rodt'hir, but, working with Captain Kirk, you got used to these things. 

"How long until we get a response?" Kirk asked.

It was Spock that answered him. "Assuming they reply immediately, we should receive a response in one hour and thirteen minutes."

"How long until we reach Starbase Two?" the captain asked Sulu.

"ETA two hours at warp two, Captain."

"Go to warp three."

"Aye," Sulu responded. The ship hummed faintly louder and the stars on the viewscreen blurred even further. "ETA one hour and five minutes."

"Spock," Kirk summoned. "Doctor McCoy wants you in sickbay." The Vulcan nodded and left.

Kirk stared at the stars, brooding. 

Spock turned into the more isolated part of sickbay and heard McCoy coughing fluidly. Chekov didn't move, barely breathing as Spock passed. The doctor looked up and spotted him through the doorway to his office, covering his coughs hurriedly.

"Well, you got here quick. I need you to help me look for cures for two diseases. Here," McCoy said, and played the computer's diagnoses of the blood samples.

"Who are the samples from?" Spock asked after the machine stopped.

"Chekov," McCoy answered. Spock could tell he was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth. He let it go; the doctor obviously didn't want anyone to know he was sick, though the captain already did.

Spock nodded thoughtfully. "Computer," he summoned. "Evalu-ate the effects of trioxide cylide on samples A and B."

"Tried that already," McCoy told him.

"Working... sample A: none; sample B: none."

"Dicarbon gretanide," the doctor suggested. 

"Working... sample A: none; sample B: minimal effectiveness in neutralizing foreign agent."

McCoy sighed. "At least we're making some progress." Chekov's magnified heartbeat in the other room slowed, stopped, and returned stronger than before; the life support had activated. Having patients on life support always reminded the doctor of zombies; dead but artificially alive.

"Computer, analyze the foreign agent in sample B. What is it made of?"

"Working... cyclidic acid." Spock waited for more, but none was forthcoming. 

"Interesting," he said. Pure cyclidic acid occurred nowhere on any planet Starfleet had ever explored, nor was it able to be made in any laboratory. Cyclidic acid was one of the most deadly biological weapons in existence; it slowly ate through almost every material at the cellular level, including living tissue, and there was no treatment for it. People who'd come into contact with even the diluted form invariably died.

McCoy paled. "I've got cyclidic acid eating through my guts and all you can say is 'interesting'?" he said, disregarding his earlier allegation that both samples were Chekov's. "It doesn't even rate a _'fascinating'?" _

"No," Spock told him bluntly. "It is unfortunate, but it was not, after all, totally unexpected."

"'_Unfortunate'? You do remember that there is no possible way to counteract this, right?"_

"Then we shall just have to find one."

"What," McCoy asked sarcastically, "are the odds of finding one before I die in, what, three hours?"

Spock didn't hesitate. "Merely five hundred and fifty-two point eighty seven to one. In five hours."

"Uh-huh. Merely."

"Assuming we don't delay any longer." Spock looked at the doctor meaningfully. 

"Fine. Let's not delay," McCoy told him. They began suggesting possible cures to the computer as they thought of them. 

"Captain," Uhura called. "We're receiving a message from Starfleet Command."

"Onscreen," Kirk told her. He was surprised; they were still fifteen minutes away from Starbase Two. 

"Kirk," the admiral on the screen said. "You've got to get back to that planet. We can't let the Klingons have it!"

"Admiral," Kirk told her calmly. "I would rather not."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice, _Captain." She stressed the last word, making it clear that this was not a request. "That planet must have strategic value, for the Klingons to want it."_

"Not necessarily. They could want it to spite the Federation." _Spock would be proud...__ well, impressed, anyway he thought. __I'm thinking logically. "My CMO is dying and my navigator would already be dead without life support." Kirk responded with all the civility he could muster; McCoy had updated him on the situation in sickbay. "The inhabitants of that planet infected both of them, one with pure cyclidic acid and the other with some sort of disease. My responsibility is to this crew, and I can fulfill that responsibility in two ways. I can get those two to a starbase's better medical facilities, and I can refuse to risk any more crew members by going back to Nodya. Right now I would prefer to do both."_

The admiral- Kirk didn't know her- shook her blonde hair and looked apologetic. Her full lips pouted outward and her greenish eyes widened slightly. He figured it was just a way to get what she wanted from him. "Normally I would respect your decision not to return to Nodya, but right now I have no choice. I _will order you back if I have to, but I'd rather not. If those people are as powerful as your navigator suggests, they could be a major threat to the Federation. If they're under the control of the Klingons, it makes them twice as dangerous. If they're controlling the Klingons, they're more powerful than even you might think. If they're what we think, __they're not the problem at all."_

"Let me get my officers to a starbase then," he bargained. "We're only-" he looked at Sulu. 

"Ten minutes." 

"-ten minutes from Starbase Two. Surely you can spare that long."

Again the admiral shook her head. "I'm sorry. You have to turn back right now. Every minute we talk increases their hold on them. Kabrini out." The screen darkened as the admiral- Kabrini- closed the connection on her enigmatic statement.

Kirk slumped slightly. "Helm, reverse course. Warp four." He now had half an hour to figure out what he was going to do about the Rodt'hir.


	5. chapter 5

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

CHAPTER 5

"_Cyclidic acid?" McCoy said incredulously. "What, exactly, do you think that'll do, besides kill us faster? You give that to Chekov and he won't have to worry about that disease anymore!"_

"In it's diluted form," Spock corrected the doctor. "Were it pure cyclidic acid, you would be correct. However, since I do not plan on using pure cyclidic acid, were it even available, there will be less risk of immediate death. Now we must simply find a cure for you." 

McCoy snorted. "Simply?" He started coughing up blood, as if to emphasize his next point. "In case you haven't noticed, I have about three and a half hours to live." The very thought made him feel weak, or maybe it was just the poison. He honestly didn't want to die, despite what the captain may think about his frequent sparring with Spock.

"I have. It would be most inconvenient to lose the ship's Chief Medical Officer," Spock agreed. 

"Excuse me for being dense," McCoy interrupted, "but how, ex-actly, do you plan on saving that boy's life with _cyclidic acid?!" _

"If you will notice, the computer's diagnosis of your blood noted a complete absence of living bacteria. The disease affecting Ensign Chekov is composed of extremely deadly bacteria." He looked at the doctor meaningfully. "The cyclidic acid rids the body of the smaller, weaker bacteria before it fully effects the body. Of course, to effectively use in its diluted form, there must be longer exposure."

"How much longer?"

"I do not know. That fact depends on how much the bacteria have multiplied by the time we inject him with it. The reproduction rate is erratic at best, so I cannot tell you how much that will be."

McCoy sighed and remained silent for a moment. "Wait!" he said suddenly. "Lead! Computer, what are the effects of lead on sample B?"

"Working," it said. "Complete removal of cyclidic acid, reversal of cellular damage caused by cyclidic acid and all other side effects; lead poisoning."

McCoy disdainfully disregarded the resultant lead poisoning. 

"See? Now we've got a cure." He could give himself the antidote for lead poisoning in his sleep.

"Computer, what are the effects of cyclidic acid on sample A," Spock requested.

"Working... unable to comply. Insufficient data." The Vulcan nodded slightly. The fact that pure cyclidic acid had been impossibleto obtain until an hour and a half ago had made the computer's results not improbable. 

"Unfortunately," was his answer to the doctor, "we do not know if the cyclidic acid will work."

"Well," McCoy drawled, "there's only one way to find out." He programmed a hypospray for the diluted cyclidic acid solution without waiting for Spock's reply. Spock followed him out of the office, not liking the situation but seeing no other options. 

McCoy injected the solution into Chekov's arm and reprogrammed the hypospray for himself, just as he doubled over in a fit of coughing. 

He heard the intercom as he straightened. "Kirk to sickbay."

Spock, closer, answered it first. "Spock here."

"How's it coming down there?"

"We are nearly finished. Doctor McCoy has found a solution to the problem of the cyclidic acid, which we are now using to cure Ensign Chekov." 

"Great! I've got bad news, though; we've been ordered to return to Nodya and retrieve it from the Klingons."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "That is unfortunate, considering the nature of the Rodt'hir."

Kirk laughed, a dry, mirthless sound that expressed his feelings precisely. "That, Mister Spock, is an understatement, and we've got half an hour to figure out what we're going to do about it."

"Understood. I shall return to the bridge. Spock out." He turned off the intercom and left sickbay without a backward glance, knowing that McCoy had been listening to what was said.

The doctor didn't look after Spock, injecting himself with the contents of the hypospray instead. He fancied he could feel it working already, though he knew he couldn't. _Placebo effect, he told himself. _

He sat at his desk, listening to the lulling sound of the amplified laborious heartbeat. There was nothing left to do but wait.

"'Every minute we talk increases their hold on them'?" Spock mused. "Interesting."

"Know what she was talking about?" the captain asked him. 

"Not for sure, though there are numerous possibilities. The Rodt'hir could be holding the Klingons; the Klingons could be holding someone; the Alliance could be held by the Klingons; she could have been referring to the unwilling members of the Alliance; the Alliance itself could be under the control of an unknown third party; or the rebels may have taken over." 

"That's our second problem at the moment," Kirk told him, dismissing the subject to the back of his mind. "First we have to oust the Klingons from the system, then deal with the Rodt'hir themselves. And I am _out of ideas." He looked as weary as he sounded, and felt as if he was nursing a headache big enough to swallow the ship along with the Rodt'hir. It would solve quite a few problems, anyway. _

Spock looked thoughtful. "The two problems may be related. If the Klingons are being controlled by the Rodt'hir, we may simple have to break that control to remove the Klingons. We must find out how they are doing it first."

"You're talking like it's definite that they're being controlled."

He nodded. "In my experience, Klingons do not so easily take orders from some one not their commander, or even their comman-der, as Doctor McCoy descri-bed, nor do they as easily give them-selves away as the commander did in his conversation with you."

Kirk considered the facts given to him, then conceded. "Okay, but what do you mean by 'Find out how the are doing it'? I'd assumed that they were controlling them telepathically, if at all."

"The chances of that being the case are abysmally small. Klingons are not known to have any telepathic rating at all; they are, for the most part, esper blind." 

"Their rating would be zero?" the captain paraphrased incredu-lously. "A whole race, esper blind!" It was hard for him to believe. Even humans had _some telepathic rating. He thought for a moment. "Hypnosis?" he suggested._

Spock considered. "Possible, but there would have to be a visual stimuli. I do not know of anything which could hypnotize the Klingons at this such a distance from the planet." 

"Approaching the planet." Sulu informed them.

"Standard orbit," Kirk told him absently. He glanced at the planet on the screen. It swirled orange and green below them, the faint shim-mer of the sensor-shield overlaid on the desert. 

"Spock," he said suddenly. "What, exactly, does that shield do?"

"It reflects sensors and almost all other energy, except light and heat," Spock told him easily.

"But we can _transport through it."_

Spock raised a considering eyebrow. "That would seem to be unusual," he admitted. "Though we cannot transport through all sec-tions of it. The major cities seem to be shielded." 

"Could it _enhance some form of energy?"_

Slowly, Spock nodded. "It could, if it were calibrated to the exact frequency. The power consumption would be enormous, of course, but if there were some way around that..." He seemed lost in his thoughts of the engineering marvel that was the Rodt'hir shield. 

"Scan it. See what kind of energy it might amplify. I want to know what's controlling those Klingons."

Spock returned to his science station and began scanning. 

Half an hour later he was still scanning. He had figured out what it couldn't be; light, heat, electricity, gravity, magnetism, or any form of radiation. That left precious few options. In fact, it left one, which he had no test for. He hesitated to present it to the captain without proof, but he had what Kirk would call a "hunch".Spock had found that hu-man hunches tended to be accurate more times than not, but he had never had enough to make an accurate assessment of his own "gut feelings". However, since they had four point six one minutes before entering into orbit around Nodya, and no other leads, he submitted his findings. 

"Really?" Kirk asked when he was finished. "Amplifies _thoughts?" _

Spock nodded. "A hybrid of telepathy and mass-hypnosis, and a very powerful weapon. Now we must simply find the shield-generator and disable it, which could possibly drive away the Klingons."

"Good work," the captain praised. "Where's the shield the thick-est?"

"At the poles, presumably where the generators are." 

Kirk nodded. "We both look passably like Rodt'hir. You'll take Lieutenant Teckur from engineering to the north pole, I'll take Mr. Scott to the south. Disable the generator in any way possible. Beam back when you're done." Spock nodded and headed away.

"Scotty, you're with me. Sulu, you've got the conn." Kirk was followed by Scott as he walked into the 'lift and headed for the transporter room. 

"Kirk to sickbay," he called from the 'lift intercom.

"Sickbay. McCoy here," the doctor answered. He was utterly surprised that he'd had to wake himself before answering. he fed a sample of his blood to the computer to see if the lead had done its work.

"_How's the patient?"_

McCoy yawned. "Depends. Which one?"

"_Both."_

"I'm tired but fine. Chekov is-" he had been about to say _fine, until he looked at the displays, and he ensign. "- not fine," he finished lamely. "I'm gonna have to call you back. McCoy out."_

"Computer, analyze blood sample," he said as he took another from Chekov. He was pale and sweaty, twitching every few seconds. Even on life support, the readings for his respiration and heartbeat were erratic.

"Human," the computer said. "Type A positive. Excessive a-mount of lead." It stopped. 

He fed it Chekov's newest sample. "Analyze this blood sample."

"Human. Type AB negative. Mutation caused by and containing cyclidic acid of disease analyzed earlier."

"What does to disease do?"

"Disease replaces white blood cells with infected cells, kills red blood cells." 

_So, McCoy thought, __he's going to suffocate in perfectly breath-able air. After quite a bit of suffering. _

"Off," he said wearily, then tried to call Kirk. 

"McCoy to bridge."

"_Sulu here."_

"Sulu, where's the captain?"

"_Down on the planet. No calls allowed."_

"This is an emergency."

"_What is it?" he asked warily._

"Your friend is dying down here, so are you gonna put me through or not?" He knew he would be sorry he'd said that tomorrow, but right now he didn't care.

Sulu gulped. "_Right away, sir."_

"_What is it, Bones? I told Sulu 'no calls unless it's an emergency'."_

"So he said. This is an emergency. The disease Chekov had has mutated and I don't have a cure. If anything, it's worse than be-fore. He needs a Starbase."

"_Well, I'm sorry I don't have one on hand. We can't leave without shutting down these generators, or they'll just use the Klingons to conquer the galaxy."_

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about, but I disagree with it on principle. This boy is dying, and you want to stay play engineer!"

"_Not quite. These shield generators are what's hypnotized the Klingons who've claimed the system, and we need to get rid of the Klingons. Instant mission. We'll head back to Starbase Two as soon as we're done here."_

"We'd better. You won't be the only one on the hot-spot if he dies, and neither will I. McCoy out."

"Computer, compile a list of possible cures. Evaluate the effects of each." It was going to be a long night.

*** * * **

_Chekov wandered in deserted hallways which were flashing between light and darkness like a strobe light. He couldn't figure out why the Enterprise was empty, deserted except for the screams. Screams and moans of pain reverberated and echoed through the ghost ship. Low human voices were almost but not quite drowned out. They were too far away to help him. He heard Klingon guffaws and low Rodt'hir voices. He heard them in his head. He knew all he had to do was find them and they would go away, leaving him with blessed silence, but part of him didn't want to find the Klingons, or the Rodt'hir._

_Remember!__ it screamed. Remember the agonizer! Remember the zapstick! They'll do it again! ___

_NO! he screamed back. Please no! No more... He trembled in a corner, surrounded by tortured screams and memories of horrible pain. He couldn't move; they would find him if he moved..._

*** * * __**

_ _

_ _

Jim Kirk and Scott finally got the shield generator disabled. The computer's light blinked and died, the humming faded away, and Scotty crawled out from underneath it. His red uniform shirt was coated with grime and his beaming face was smeared with it.

"That should do 'er," he said in his thick brogue. "I think we won the race."

"You had a race going on?"

"Oh, aye, sir. Just a wee wager between meself and Lieutenant Teckur. People gen'rally work faster under pressure," he said conspiratorially.

"I'll... take that under consideration," Kirk told him. He flipped out his communicator. "Kirk to Spock."

"_Spock here, Captain."_

"How's your work coming?" 

"_Admirably well, sir."_

"Have you encountered any problems?"

"_No."_

He heard an odd undertone (of emotion?) in the Vulcan's voice. "Where are you?" he asked suspiciously. 

"_On the Enterprise."_

"Oh. Done already?"

"_Yes. We completed the task thirteen point eight two minutes ago."_

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"_Your orders were to return to the ship when we had completed the assignment, which we did."_

_Yeah, right he thought, smiling. __You just wanted to gloat. "We'll be right there. Two to beam up."_

He flipped close the communicator and turned back to a frow-ning Scotty as the first tell-tale humming began. "Looks like you lost."

Onboard the _IKV Terror, Commander tlq'woQ stared at the federation ship that had the audacity to return. "Prepare to fire," he told the gunner. She responded in the affirmative. _

Suddenly, every Klingon on the bridge wagged their head, clearing their minds. At the same time, the blue shimmer of the planet's shield disappeared, and a cloud seemed to lift from their thoughts. They realized how hopelessly outgunned they were simul-taneously. The commander stirred. "Belay that order. Warp five, out of this system." _What had they wanted with this lifeless planet, anyway? The helmsman readily obeyed. _

"What's the status on that shield?" Kirk demanded as he stepped down to take the center seat. 

Spock turned toward him. "It is gone. The Klingons have also vacated the system."

"At roughly warp ten," Sulu said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Lieutenant Uhura smiled. 

Spocknodded. "I believe the term is 'beat a hasty retreat'." 

"Great. Have the Rodt'hir done anything... adverse?"

"Negative, Captain. They have done nothing at all pertaining to us." 

A deep, male voice boomed into the ship, heard by everyone from engineering to sickbay to the bridge. Ensign Chekov heard it through his coma and covered his ears in terror on the deserted ship. A startled technician tripped in his quarters. A yeoman's datapad clattering to the deck went unheard.

"YOU ARE CLEVERER THAN WE GAVE YOU CREDIT FOR," it announced. "YOU WILL MAKE WORTHY OPPONENTS." It stopped; the ensuing silence was deafening. A rebellious console gave a single plaintive _bleep and succumbed to the stillness. Though lights, gravity, and air remained functional, it gave the feeling of being in a void. _

"Who are you?" Kirk demanded politely after a second.

"I AM THE GIVER, THE TAKER, THE HELPER, THE HINDERER. I AM EVERYTHING YOU WANT, I AM EVERYTHING YOU NEED, I AM EVERYTHING INSIDE OF YOU THAT YOU WISH YOU COULD BE. I AM EVERYTHING YOU FEAR, EVERYTHING YOU SHOULD FEAR. I AM MANY THINGS." 

"I was looking for a name, or a species." The captain was not renowned for patience with riddles. 

"I HAVE NO NAME; I AM MY OWN SPECIES. I USE OTHER SPECIES, FOR THEY ARE BUT TOYS AND THE UNIVERSE IS MY PLAYGROUND."

"Why are you here?"

" I AM PLAYING WITH THE RODT'HIR."

"How long have you been playing?"

"ONLY SINCE THEY EVOLVED."

Kirk gawked. "Spock, what does he mean by '_Only since they evolved'?"_

"It is possible," Spock conceded, "that there are life forms to which millions of years may be but an instant."

"I HAVE BEEN PLAYING SINCE BEFORE YOUR SUN WAS CREATED. I WILL PLAY AFTER YOUR RACE HAS BEEN FOR-GOTTEN IN THE MISTS OF TIME."

Kirk stood. "Are you saying that you're only a child?" 

"I WAS NEVER A CHILD. I WILL NEVER GROW OLD. I AM IMMORTAL, INDESTRUCTIBLE. I AM SUPERIOR." 

"Come aboard our ship."

"I WILL NOT."

"Are you too large?"

"I CAN FIT ANYWHERE."

"Are you afraid?"

"I AM AFRAID OF NOTHING."

"Then join us. Don't you ever look upon your 'toys'?"

"LOOK ABOVE YOU, CAPTAIN." Kirk, and everyone else on the bridge, tilted their heads upward. Against a backdrop of the stars seen through the clear aluminum "skylight", a glowing, pulsing red ball floated in midair, no bigger than a fingertip. Red light eminated from the center, making it appear a thousand times bigger. It still looked the size of a volleyball. "NOW YOU SEE ME."

"How old is it, Spock?" he asked quietly. 

"At least as old as the Guardian of Forever, Captain. Even the ship's sensors do not go back that far."

He addressed the ball. "What do you mean when you say that you play with a species?"

"I MEAN WHAT I SAY. THEY DO AS I WANT. BUILD WHAT I WANT. ACT HOW I WANT. EVOLVE HOW I WANT. I AM THEIR GOD, AND THEIR DEVIL. IF I DO NOT WISH IT, IT DOES NOT HAPPEN."

Kirk thought fast, and jumped on the best strategy he found. "Then it's because of you that I have a dying crewmember in sickbay."

"YES."

"Heal him."

"NO."

"I don't believe anything you said. Heal him."

"I WILL NOT."

"Can't you play with humans?"

"I CAN DO ANYTHING."

"I don't believe you. Prove it."

"VERY WELL.... IT IS DONE. HE WILL COMPLETE IT HIM-SELF, OR NO ONE."

Suddenly, the ball trembled. A high pitched shriek, painful to the humans and Spock, filled the ship. "YOU CANNOT! I AM INVIN-CIBLE! YOU CANNO---!" The ball shrank, and with it its wail. The sounds re-turned to the ship. 

"What the hell was that? Where'd it go?" Kirk demanded of Spock. 

"I do not know. It would seem to be dead, injured, or banished from the context of its last words."

"By what?" Sulu's words hung in the air. 

*** * ***

**_Chekov saw the glowing ball and heard It talking, but from a mental distance. It only terrified him more, until it acknowledged that It was the cause of his pain. It__ had put him on this empty ship with the screams and the Klingons and the Rodt'hir. The fear changed to fury. _**

_It refused to help him, and he stood up, challenging It. I hate you__ he thought. For everything. The Rodt'hir, the pain, the Klingons. Every-thing. You're nothing. I hate you. __They came with a calmness that he didn't even possess when he wasn't confronted by an immortal monster._

_Suddenly, though he had hurled nothing more substantial than thoughts at It, the ball recoiled from him, shrinking and fleeing all at the same time. "YOU CANNOT!" It tried to scream at him. He ignored It. You caused it all. Everything has a price, and it's time to pay the piper. __He just threw whatever came to mind at It, and as long as it came from the heart, he didn't really think it mattered. Go away. Die. Just never come back. __It went, wailing all the way; "I'LL GET YOU, HUMAN-" _

_The screams stopped. The Rodt'hir and Klingon voices stopped. All that was left was the voice of Dr. McCoy, still far away, but reachable now. He went for it._

_ _

*** * * **

"Calm down," McCoy said, as if Chekov could hear him. He wasn't thrashing anymore, but his body was as tense as a banjo string. The disease had vanished, courtesy of the glowing ball, he supposed, but he was still in a coma. 

He suddenly went limp, then gasped for air like a drowning man who breaks through to the surface. His eyes shot open and he struggled against the restraints. 

"Whoa, whoa, calm down. Hold still." McCoy started unfastening the straps. Chekov's eyes lit on him and he leaned back, relieved. With a flourish, the doctor undid the last one. "There, you're free. Not out of my clutches yet, though," he said as Chekov tried- and failed- to move his right arm. He was still pretty messed up- in pieces would almost have been more accurate- but lucky to be alive. "Don't try to walk, either."

"Don't worry about that." His Russian accent was so thick his words were almost incomprehensible, but the meaning was clear. "Did I beat It?" he asked axiously. "Is It gone?"

"Is _what gone?"_

"It. The glowing, red," here he muttered something in Russian and gestured one-sidedly, "...ball thing."

"Yeah, it's gone." McCoy still couldn't figure out what he meant, but he knew the thing he was talking about.

Chekov sighed deeply. "_Blogodaryu vas," he said, and it sounded like a prayer._


	6. chapter 6 the end

CHAPTER 6

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

CHAPTER 6

He was lucky there was no one in the hallways, or else he might have been caught by now. Sulu's door was just a little further...

He buzzed for entrance. For an agonizing second, he thought Sulu wasn't going to let him in.

"Who is it?" 

"It's me. Let me in."

"Pavel? I thought you were in sickbay." Sulu couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.

"I am. Let me in before I have to go back."

"I'll take it under consideration."

"Let me in... or I'll huff and puff and blow your house down."

Chekov could almost hear the smile in Sulu's voice. "Come." He quickly stepped inside before the door was even completely open. "According to the doctor, your not healthy enough to blow out a candle," Sulu continued. 

"He's wrong."

"Then why that?" The helmsman nodded toward the sling on Chekov's arm. "Decoration?"

"Don't ask. I can't get it off without two hand's either. Don't ask me how many times I tried; I lost count."

"And the limp?"

"Ah... hrrghpm." He mumbled his inadequate explanation. Sulu smiled. 

"Hey, it's not me you have to worry about. Uhura's the worry-wart, remember?" The door buzzed again. "Come," he said, without thinking.

Dr. McCoy stormed through the doorway, a triumphant gleam in his eye. "Ha! Didn't think you could get away that easily, did you?"

Chekov cast a long-suffering glance over his shoulder as McCoy herded him through the door. "One of these days, I'm going to transfer to security so I can escape these situations," he said. He disappeared around the doorway.

"How's the reteaching of the Rodt'hir coming, Admiral?" Kirk asked the viewscreen. Admiral Kabrini sat at her desk on the viewscreen. "Very well, actually. All we needed to do was give them a purpose, and they adopted it as their own. They should be ready to join the Federation within the next couple of years. At least, they won't turn homicidal."

"That's very nice to know. If there's nothing else...?"

"No. Kabrini out." The view returned to the stars as they appeared from warp speed. Traveling between stars, exploring strange new worlds- that's what it was all about. He could do without the "new life, and new civilizations" for the moment. Just give me a ship and a star to steer by he thought. 

The Enterprise sailed on, devoid of murderous monsters.


End file.
